


don't rock the boat

by blueincandescence



Series: all's fair in love and cold war [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship, Prompt Fill, Solo is always a shipper in my fics, UST, literal showboating, working out feelings via gratuitous touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8492977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueincandescence/pseuds/blueincandescence
Summary: Gaby doesn’t know how to handle between-missions Illya. He’s too...human.





	

ZAKYNTHOS ISLAND, OCTOBER 1963

The midday sun baking her lotion-slick skin, Gaby stretches to skim her fingers along the coolness of the Mediterranean. Though the power boat’s engine sputters in idle, foam from their swift approach to nowhere drifts on the jewel-bright surface of the sea. She drapes herself lower, letting the loose waves of her hair dip into the water.

Salt air fills her lungs to bursting. Rome, Istanbul, Athens. Three missions in five weeks. The force of her exhale sends out ripples. Still breathing.

Gaby has read her future in the spray-dampened envelope pressed under her bare thighs. Tonight, she will cross to the other side of the island to board a small cruise vessel bound for Majorca. At her side will be a matronly companion borrowed from the BND. Their luggage, wheeled behind them by the staff, will contain two hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth of rare jewelry. For its protection, a mean-looking behemoth of a man dressed all in black will trail like a shadow.

Illya does not shadow any bit of her sun today. Were she to turn her head, Gaby knows his tall frame, so rigid and broad, will be resting against the windshield in a veritable slouch, amber-tinted sunglasses pointed in the direction of white cliffs in the distance. He has a beer in hand. He wears navy swim trunks and nothing else.

Between each mission, they have gotten a clockwork thirty-six hours for rest, recovery, and travel.

In Rome, she witnessed Illya throwing back whiskey and pouring himself another. The Soviet poster boy then lit a cigarette and surveyed the cityscape. He’d said to her, ‘We never saw much of the sights,’ same invitation in his voice as when he asked her up to Cowboy’s room for a drink. Waverly was her excuse both times.

In Istanbul, Illya shopped for souvenirs. He ate with pleasure, humming to savor a tender kebab and washing it down with a milky liquorice-tasting drink that made Gaby shiver. As the dinner boat sailed underneath the bridge where they’d shared their first kiss, a cool hand swept back her hair to settle sapphires and diamonds at her throat. ‘Protection from the Evil Eye,’ he said, same promise in his voice as when he told her a ring would keep track of her. His mouth, raki-saturated, slanted down hard over hers with an impulsive surety that made her bruised ribs ache from the inside long after they’d been interrupted.

On their privately chartered flight from Athens late last night, he closed his eyes and slept. Actually slept. Wedged into the window seat, Gaby had tested him with murmured insults to Russian culture and prodding fingers that edged the wool covering the softer flesh of his inner thigh. Illya remained unguarded, the outline of his parted lips so traceable in the dim light. Solo’s even snores caught, and her hand clenched. Illya tensed, remaining immobile with her until Solo rearranged himself on his side of the aisle. Without opening his eyes, Illya moved to tease her at her hemline with feather-light strokes she endured until it was possible to feign sleep. His hand stilled, started to lift. But Gaby held him mid-thigh, both her hands circling the width of his wrist, and let her head loll onto his arm.

They negotiate each other through such advances and retreats. During missions, she is almost all advance — goading him for his hyperfocus, testing his resolve. Between missions, the burden of retreat falls to her.

Ebb and flow, like the rock of a boat.

Behind her, Illya shifts and water laps the sides. The steering wheel creeks; he is leaning back, taking in a new view. Her skin reacts to the touch of his eyes. She knows that touch now, having had his eyes trained on her across a ballroom, in a darkened warehouse, from behind a pair of binoculars, through the windows of a prized car and a familiar garage forfeit in exchange for this uncertain freedom. But she does have the beach. White sand, blue waters. Bluer eyes.

Small boat shifting again, he hovers in the space above her back. The pop of the sunscreen bottle hitches in her chest, the friction of his hands rubbing together prickling her skin. Letting her lashes drift closed, she listens to the glide of his hands over his skin. He is thorough.

She watched him lotion up on the dock, interest concealed by opaque lenses. He remembered all the spots she never did — his ears, his eyelids, behind his knees. Muscles bunched, Illya’s long reach took care of his back. Solo had covered hers, nattering on about boat engines just to prove she wasn’t hearing him. Illya is too pale, Gaby tried to tell herself, the slivers of scar tissue too pronounced. Solo is tanned, smooth perfection by contrast, but all that observation conjured was warm bemusement at how hard he tries for an audience of one.

As they set off from the dock, Gaby started when she realized Solo was not joining them. Winding up the rope, he said, ‘Just as I hit the water last time, I made a promise to myself: never again would I get into a power boat with this maniac. And I always keep my promises.’ He flashed his white teeth. ‘To myself.’ Illya brokered no argument, didn’t even bother to hide how pleased he was at the turn of events. Off of Gaby’s lingering look, Solo warned, ‘Keep your footing, Teller.’

Illya clears his throat. They have not spoken much since setting off from the dock. Wordlessly, she declined his offer of the wheel, a generous one knowing as she does that power boat champion is one of the many accolades enshrined in his file. Yelling over the engine, he commented on the torque, Solo’s likelihood of capsizing his water scooter, the water’s deceptive cold, and finally the weather until her monosyllabic answers drove him to the very silence that she has so often challenged. Gaby swats at the ripples her heavy sigh forms.

“Would you like?”

What is Illya offering her — the bottle or his services? Gaby doesn’t look. She knows exactly what she would like. She has a ready fantasy of reaching back to pull the tie on her two-piece and purring, What are you waiting for? But the answer to that question is her, and she can’t even bring herself to meet his eyes.

Gaby inclines her neck. His slick fingers find her there first, massaging lightly as he lotions a steady path down her back. In the disparity between the smoothness of the sunscreen and the calloused patches of his skin, anticipation builds for what the next stroke will feel like. He outlines her shoulder blades, the lines of her top, and smooths over her lower back to the edge of her bottoms. His touch tickles her ribs, slowing down there at the limits of his reach.

Securing oversized sunglasses over her face before she turns, Gaby situates her back against the side of the boat. Her legs she stretches out between Illya’s feet, well braced for the gentle ripple she causes. An outstretched arm is her invitation to continue. Under opaque lenses, she is free to turn her head out toward the water and, from the corner of her eye, watch the movement of his chest as he works her over. When he draws up her other arm, the oblique lines of his hips catch her eye. She would like to trace them with her fingertips, follow that trail with her lips.

She would like to stop the color from rising to her cheeks, giving her away. Illya strokes her shoulders, gentling.

Tossing her hair, Gaby skims her foot up the golden hairs covering his leg and offers him an ankle. Illya rests it on his thigh while he soaks up more sunscreen. Concentration sets his chin. He begins with her arch, moves to the ball of her foot and between her toes.

Whatever task he sets his mind to he does it right, he does it well. Two things Gaby knows down in her gut: Illya will be far and away the best lover she has ever had, and her worst possible choice of one. He will ruin her. He will. The question is how soon, how much. So many things have wrecked her already.

The size of his hands make even the widest part of her thighs seem delicate. Only his thumb grazes where her modestly-cut bottoms meet her thigh. Excitation blooms for the newness, his boldness. He begins again on her other leg.

Tension from her core radiates to muscles that jump under the confidence of his touch. Jaw set, Gaby searches Illya’s collected demeanor for a clue to when he had made up that intractable mind of his to have her. Was it the night they spent in the abandoned dig, huddled for warmth? Or their first proper dance, his hands taking full advantage of a backless gown and a jealous mark? When she gifted him poetry? Was it Rome?

Illya sets down her leg. He pushes out another coin-sized dollop of sunscreen, spreading it evenly over his broad palms. “Almost finished.”

All that is left is her midriff, her chest, her face. Gaby toys with her sunglasses. Stands in the narrow space, careful not to initiate touch. Illya’s decision is his own; she will make hers when she is damn good and ready. She finds she can meet his half-lidded eyes now, chin set and brow up. With two fingers of each hand, he covers her from the tips of her ears to the point of her nose, wrinkled up at the chemical smell. He draws down her neck, lowering his in range for a kiss. Gaby merely lifts her other brow.

Illya sits. The boat tips, pitching Gaby forward to catch herself on his chest. For a gasping moment, she imagines the shock of cold salt water hitting her lungs. The boat rights itself. Hands on her waist, Illya rights her. His low chuckle heats Gaby better than the sun.

“Dummkopf,” she accuses, smacking him on the shoulder. Her other hand curls into the crisp hairs that mat his chest collarbones to pectorals.

He continues his task, spreading sunscreen over her abdomen, remembering to dip into her navel. Hands skipping the fabric of her swimsuit top, he settles his palms on her chest and lowers them over the slight swell of her breasts. Under her hands, his lungs fill. In his sunglasses, her reflection in duplicate parts her lips.

The burden of retreat is hers.

Illya exhales slowly, as if not to spook her. “Cowboy will not stay away for long.”

Is that a retreat? Her sunglasses slip to the flare of her nostrils, but she does not move to right them. Is she disappointed?

“There are places on cove. Secluded.”

Her exaggerated lashes flutter in surprise against her lenses. Is she relieved? Around a lump forming in her throat, Gaby replies, “Shipwreck Cove.” She turns her lips down as if impressed. “Auspicious.”

Illya huffs, cheeks lifting the frames of his sunglasses. “Neither of us are superstitious type.”

Gaby has to snort at that. Timely interventions, ominous feelings, bad signs. Were they superstitious in the least they would have never let things escalate as they have. Illya’s mouth is shiny with sunscreen. She would like to lick past the taste. That certainty is not enough to make her choice. Sliding off her sunglasses, she asks, “So what kind of fools are we?”

Jaw working, Illya thinks on his reply. Gaby hopes he comes up with a good one; she would like to be convinced.

They could make love on the sand like something from a dream she once forbade herself, locked as she was behind the Wall. They could sate their ill-conceived desire in thirty-six-hour windows between missions until the day there are no more. Illya seems to take all his pleasures this way.

His forehead comes to rest on her sternum. She strokes his slick nape.

Better, she thinks, to give into each other during a mission, excused by adrenaline. It is an inevitability, giving in; they did not last long as the type of fools to pretend otherwise. But how to proceed when he denies her spontaneity as sure as she rejects his compartmentalization?

Rasp buzzing her skin, Illya admits at last, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know, either.”

Neither advance nor retreat — impasse by mutual agreement. New territory.

They stroke each other’s skin.

Gaby dons her sunglasses once more. “I would like to drive the boat,” she says and is pleased by the evenness of her voice.

“Okay,” Illya rumbles, presses his lips to her sternum. He stands carefully, letting her turn to stand behind the driver’s seat before he crowds in next to her.

The skip of the boat across the water as she accelerates them back toward the cove is a satisfying counterpoint to Illya’s thumb stroking the small of her back.

They spot Solo on his water scooter doing tricks for a boat full of what look like Grecian swimsuit models.

“He is almost a parody of himself,” Gaby calls as she sideswipes to a stop beside him, almost turning him over. Solo frowns. She shrugs.

Solo isn’t the only one vying for the attention of the models; a quartet of Greek men in a larger power boat idle nearby. The driver yells out something that ends with the English, “Women driver!” and lots of laughter. Another makes a rude gesture toward his crotch.

Pulling a face, Solo notes, “I believe that is your masculinity they’re calling into question, Peril.”

“Would you like to shut them up?” Illya offers her, ever generous.

She would, but Gaby knows that if Illya doesn’t let off steam in the next eight hours he is going to be hell to work with on the mission. “You’re the champion,” she returns and steps on the seat to let him get behind the wheel.

“It’s a race!” Solo announces, and the models erupt in cheers and whistles. He shoots Gaby another warning — “Hold on tight” — this one with a wink.

Gaby wraps her arms around Illya’s torso, and he anchors her to his side, ready to smoke these boys one-handed.

At a chorus of female voices shrieking, “Go!” they take off like a shot.

The wind and the spray envelop them. There is an English word she learned in conjunction with Solo, but it turns out Illya is the literal embodiment — a showboater through and through. He whips them in circles around the Greeks, lesson taught. Still he repeats the maneuver several times before rocketing them the rest of the way down the coast.

“This is fun?” Illya shouts, fingers squeezing her side.

Gaby answers with laughter full-bodied enough to reverberate through him, too.

The speedometer oscillates, agitated by what Solo aptly described as maniacal driving. They could fly out any minute, lose their breaths to the cold water. But it is a calculated risk well worth the heady freedom.

It just goes to show where there is a right kind of foolish they will find it.

**Author's Note:**

>  **anonymous** : Ok, so we know that Illya has some great boat-steering skills, how about a little adventure in the sea maybe a little racing, and Gaby loves the speed while Napoleon is all "No! Last time I was thrown out of it!"


End file.
